


what stays and what fades away

by avalanches



Series: the midnight diner [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Smoking, inspired by the manga/drama midnight diner, near death experience implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25496914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avalanches/pseuds/avalanches
Summary: Doyoung runs a diner.It is nicknamed the Midnight Diner by his regulars, as it is only open from midnight onwards until seven in the morning.Johnny is a regular who orders kimchi fried rice with scrambled eggs instead of the normal sunny-side up. On Tuesdays, he shares a glass of alcohol with Doyoung as they watch the sunrise through the glass doors of the diner.-the first of a series chronicling the lives of nct members who are regulars at doyoung's midnight diner
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: the midnight diner [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847059
Comments: 26
Kudos: 214





	what stays and what fades away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doies/gifts).



> hello! i wrote some johndo that is Not Angsty! congratulations to me!  
> for [andie](https://twitter.com/dyblossoms) aka [180422doyoung](https://twitter.com/180422doyoung). thank you so much for making me write johndo that is Not Angst. 
> 
> \- 
> 
> inspired by the drama [midnight diner](https://www.netflix.com/title/80113541), which is available on netflix, directed by matsuoka joji, based on the manga by yaro abe.  
> title from [no light no light by florence + the machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGH-4jQZRcc)
> 
> as usual, not beta-read, will be back to fix any mistakes!

Doyoung runs a diner.

Not a conventional diner per se. It’s tucked away in one of those smaller streets in Seoul, and he doesn’t exactly advertise it on social media or anything. It’s barely the size of a studio apartment; a kitchen at the back for him to do his cooking and cleaning, leading out to a bartop counter in the shape of a C. He serves his customers who sit on the other side, keeps things like tea cups and cutlery on the shelves built under the counter on his side.

It looks ordinary enough, and it is. Doyoung doesn’t serve ghosts or anything.

He has a sparse menu, consisting of only kimchi stew, soft tofu soup and beer. He serves a side of kimchi with all the meals, which depends on what he had decided to make the week before. Water is on the house of course, and his diner has a limit of three drinks per customer. _This is a diner, not a bar_ , he says as a way of explanation, _I am not responsible for your drunkenness._

The diner has one open secret, something Doyoung doesn’t advertise, but he says it to any customer who steps through the doors of his small establishment. Customers can request for any dish from him as a meal, and he will make it for them, so long he has the ingredients for the requested dishes. Usually, he is able to fulfill most requests, most Korean dishes use the same staple ingredients after all. Doyoung’s pantry is constantly stocked, so it’s never a problem.

He flips the sign from “CLOSED” to “OPEN”, turns on the light outside, and gives the entrance one last sweep before he heads back into the shop. The chatter out in the night streets of Seoul is a pleasant hum to his ears in his little diner, fading gently into the background music that he likes to play, soft enough that conversation can still be held over the clatter of cutlery while dining. In a few minutes or so, he would have his regulars bursting through the doors, demanding for their favourites and putting him to work while they chatter about the tiring day they had.

Doyoung doesn’t have a name for his diner. He had never felt the need to give it one.

His regulars call it the Midnight Diner.

_(It is a fitting name, he thinks. It is only open from midnight to seven a.m. in the morning.)_

Some people don’t like to go home immediately after a long day of work, or life, and Doyoung knows that is the main reason why he has a steady stream of regulars who come in almost every day. They stop by the diner, place their usual orders, and say hi whenever they happen to run into each other. They complain about their day, treat each other to drinks, and talk about the gossip in the newspapers while Doyoung cooks in the background.

Doyoung himself is the opposite, he is a homebody. He lives in the small studio right above the diner, which is just big enough to contain his queen-sized bed, his wardrobe, and his bookshelf overspilling with the books that he could never bring himself to throw away. He gets all the produce delivered to the diner, orders everything online, and opens his diner every single day without fail. He barely steps foot outside of his diner, except to clean the space outside.

The Midnight Diner is a safe haven for most of Doyoung’s regulars. A small space tucked away from the bustle and hustle of the city, far away from deafening sounds of the nightlife that overwhelm some people and sweep them away into the swirling depths of neon lights with the heavy thudding bass in the background. Some people just want a stool to sit on, to nurse a cold beer and exchange senseless gossip over some favourite foods.

They say it is absolute heaven when you get to enjoy your favourite foods after a long day at work. Doyoung secretly believes that they taste even better at midnight, a time where the only food should be consumed were drinking snacks. Perhaps, that is the main reason why he operates his little diner that operated only in the middle of the night.

That is what Donghyuck thinks anyways. Doyoung doesn’t admit or deny it.

He finishes preparing by eleven thirty, makes sure that the light outside the diner is turned on, and smooths his apron down while checking on the rice in the cooker. He sits down in his stool beside the sink five minutes before midnight, and lights up a cigarette.

By the time his smoke is burned down to the filter, he knows that the doors of his diner will burst open and his regulars will crowd around the bar counter, greeting him and each other in a babble of words. Five minutes before midnight, that is Doyoung’s solace; just him and the tendrils of smokes gently drifting towards the ceiling, the smell of rice and his prepared stews curling around him like a warm blanket, safe and secure.

“Doyoung-hyung! Food!”

Doyoung puts out the cigarette underneath the sink, gets up to wash his hands before turning around to smile at the four misfits crammed onto the front of the counter facing him, their smiles wide, their eyes bright from caffeine and their binders and papers spilling all over the countertop.

“Got it, coming right up.”

\--

The four of them attend Seoul National University, having met while hiding away in the toilets in their individual attempts to skip out on freshmen orientation. Donghyuck is a music major, specialising in vocals, and is always quick to snap a witty comment that borders on bratty whenever the opportunity is ripe. Jaemin, a photography major, is equally as loud, but in a higher pitch, but is also the responsible one who drives his friends home whenever they decide to order more than two beers. Renjun who majors in graphic design, is small and narrow, but with a tongue so sharp and a temper so short, he can’t resist bodily attacking Donghyuck when his friend provokes him. Jeno, whose eyes crinkle into crescent when he smiles, is a dance major, and is usually responsible for wrestling his friends apart back into their chairs whenever things get a little rowdy.

_Grilled pork belly with rice. Rice cakes stir-fried in honey. Spicy hotpot with beef strips. Spicy seafood noodle soup._

They usually drop by the diner on Thursdays, or whatever day that precedes a common free day for all four of them. Sometimes they have class the next day, but they come anyway, claiming that they are broke, that the school cafeteria food sucks, and that Doyoung would be bored if they stopped coming. Doyoung rolls his eyes, cracks open a couple of beers for them, and makes sure that they eat their fill so that they don't collapse in his diner. They recount their university shenanigans with glee to Doyoung while he smokes, scarfing down their orders with the efficiency of broke university students that lived mainly on coffee and instant noodles.

“Donghyuck got a boyfriend!”

Doyoung blinks. This is new.

Donghyuck scowls at Jaemin’s tone, throws back the beer in his glass. “Not my boyfriend, we are just getting to know each other that’s all.”

“You had a crush on him since you had that composing class with him,” Renjun crows in mirth, he could never pass up an opportunity to tease his friend who usually made him the butt of jokes. “ You could never stop talking about him, the guy in the cute round glasses and dark hair.”

“Oh?” Doyoung drags his chair out to the customer area, cigarette held loosely in his fingers. “So you made a move?” This was getting interesting, he had thought that Donghyuck was all loud words and dramatic gestures, all talk and no action.

Donghyuck glares at the lukewarm beer in his glass, mumbles his words into the rim. “I just asked him if he wanted to get coffee next week, at the campus Starbucks.”

Jaemin throws his head back as his signature shrieking laugh escapes his throat. Jeno himself is silent from laughing too hard, his head buried into his arm on the countertop. Renjun slaps Donghyuck’s shoulder hard, his own beer glass in his other hand while he dissolves into a fit of laughter of his own. Doyoung sighs, what children.

“Hey now,” he reprimands them firmly, tapping his fingers to get their attention. “It’s not nice to be mean to Donghyuckie. He had the courage to make a move on the guy that he likes, it’s not easy at all.”

The laughter subsides, and Doyoung finds four pairs of wide eyes locked on him in intrigue, all mentions of teasing Donghyuck forgotten. He blinks back at them. “What?”

“Doyoung-hyung,” Jeno’s eyes are wide, like a puppy, and Doyoung hates that the dance student is his favourite amongst the four of them (he doesn’t tell them that, of course). “Have you confessed to someone you liked before?”

Doyoung thinks of dark red hair, parted in the middle, a yellow sunflower tattoo near the crook of a left elbow, a gentle smile. He feels the ghost of fingertips on his hip, smells the phantom grease of sizzling in the air, and he fights down a smile as he turns back to dunk his cigarette in the can under the sink.

“Nah, I’m not as brave as Donghyuck here,” he turns around, another beer in his hand. “How about I treat all of you to one extra drink? As a reward for finishing finals.”

The four boys whoop loudly as he pops the top of the bottle off and sets it in front of them. They refill their glasses and huddle together, shoulders pressed together tightly as they conduct a good luck toast wishing Donghyuck all the best with his romantic endeavour. As Donghyuck loiters around, slowly packing his things while his friends slip outside to try and get a cab, Doyoung presses a small tupperware of green onion kimchi into his hands. The younger looks up at him, confused, and eyes slightly hazy from the alcohol still in his body.

“When he becomes your boyfriend, bring him here.”

Donghyuck grins at him, tanned skin bright under the yellow lights of his diner, and nods.

\--

The sun is slowly making its way up the horizon when Doyoung steps out to turn off the lamp outside and pick up any stray beer bottles or drink cans left outside his diner. He’s leaning down to pick up a can of green tea (ew, still half full) when a pair of muscled arms wrap around his waist and pull him back against a firm chest. The can flies out of his fingers, hitting the ground with a thud, the contents spilling against the clean step of the diner and Doyoung curses.

“Mhmm, you sound so hot when you swear.”

Doyoung sighs, straightens up, and the man hugging him follows. A chin digs into his shoulder, a face nuzzles into his neck, and his heart is loud in his ears in the quiet crack of dawn as the pale yellow rays of sunlight filter into the alley where his diner is.

“We’re closed.”

Johnny hums, noses at the skin of Doyoung’s neck right above his collar, arms tightening around his waist. “I’m hungry.”

Doyoung rolls his eyes. “McDonalds is open. There’s one right at the turn of this road.”

“Don’t want Macs,” Johnny’s words slur into one another, his breath warm against Doyoung’s skin, “want your cooking. Missed it.”

Doyoung’s heart is in his throat. He thinks with how close the other man is pressed against him, Johnny is sure to hear how loudly it is hammering. He tries to tamp it down, a hand crushing down his emotions, forcing them back down his throat and into the darkest depths of his chest, locked in a box with the key thrown into the sea.

He sighs. Johnny lets go of him, and he turns around to finally look at him, watching as the rising sun paints a halo around the taller man’s red hair, ruffled and messy. Crimson flames with an amber border against a delicate backdrop of azure.

Johnny smiles at him and Doyoung sighs. The box in his chest bursts open, emotions spilling out, pink flaring up his cheeks. Johnny is gorgeous against the sun, bright and warm, and Doyoung can _never_ say no to this man.

“Wait inside.”

Johnny beams at him, brilliant even against the blaze of the morning sun, and disappears into the diner. Doyoung exhales, long and sharp, and tries to calm the uneven stutter of his heart. He leans down to pick up the dropped can gingerly with two fingers, taking care not to get the sugary liquid on him. He picks up the rest of trash, mops up the spill with the paper towels he had tucked into his pocket, files away a reminder in his head to mop the area with some soapy water before he heads to bed.

Johnny is waiting for him, seated in the chair on the left side closest to the kitchen, his cheek mushed into his hand and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his shoulders. Doyoung watches him for a bit, the staccato of his heartbeat slowing into a measured rhythm, a tender squeeze around his heart that is so warm and so familiar. He slips into the kitchen, pulls out a container of napa cabbage kimchi, scrapes out the cold rice remaining in the cooker, and sets a pan over the fire on the stove.

Eggs are cracked into a bowl, one pinch of salt, one pinch of pepper, a dash of milk. Doyoung slices up some bacon, the last few strips that he had taken out of the fridge, throws it into the hot pan together with some garlic and lets it sizzle while he dices up some kimchi. It joins the bacon and garlic, and Doyoung throws in some leftover enoki and oyster mushrooms, the plastic packaging going into the bin under the stove with a soft crinkle. He sets another pan on the other stovetop, puts it on low heat, and mixes the rice in with the rest of the ingredients, adding a generous dash of kimchi juice and sesame oil. The eggs hit the bottom of the second pan with a soft sizzle, and Doyoung makes sure to scramble them gently as they cook over the small fire. The fried rice goes into a large bowl, and the scrambled eggs are arranged in a circle on top, lightly pressed against the curve of the crockery, and he adds some dried seaweed strips, a tiny black bonfire surrounded by its yellow worshippers on top of a red-orange mountain.

He sets the bowl in front of Johnny, whose eyes blink open at the sound. He smiles sleepily up at the diner owner, his eyes barely open, and Doyoung thinks that it is absolutely _unfair_ how good the other man looks. Even if said man has dark bags under his eyes, smudged eyeliner on his lids, and his dark red hair is all mussed up and thick with gel.

“Thank you Doie.”

Johnny plucks a spoon out of the container on the counter and attacks the food with gusto. Doyoung falls back onto his own stool, leaning back against the wall as he automatically lifts a cigarette to his mouth. He watches the other man eat for a bit, the smoke dangling from his lips, his hand stuck in his pocket halfway to the lighter that had a permanent spot there.

“I’m going to wash up and head to bed,” he announces, standing up and uncaring of the loud screech of the stool legs dragging against the floor. “Clean up before you leave, the pans in the sink included. You did make me work overtime after all. I had already cleaned up before you came.”

He doesn’t wait to hear what the other man says, striding up the stairs to his bedroom and heading into the shower immediately. After a hot shower, Doyoung is wrapped up in his comfortable duvet, reading a novel on his phone as his eyelids steadily droop with exhaustion. He barely registers the soft thud of the door closing, the gentle stream of water running in the background, the words on his phone sliding off the screen and unraveling into black spirals of undistinguishable patterns in his vision.

The familiar pair of muscled arms wrap around him, easing his phone from his fingers and locking the screen before he feels the taller man’s face press into his hair, still damp from the shower he had taken not long ago. Doyoung takes a deep breath, inhales the scent of pine and sandalwood interlaced with his own shampoo and bodywash. He winds his own fingers into the hem of his duvet, presses his face into his pillow, lets the warmth radiating from the other man envelope him; Johnny pressed into his back, his light breaths gentle against the nape of his neck, lulling him towards the dark edge of sleep that tugs at his eyelids.

When he wakes up, Johnny is gone. The coffee in the cup on his bedside table is lukewarm.

Doyoung realises belatedly that he had forgotten to mop the step down with soap before bed.

\--

Doyoung remembers the first time he met Johnny.

He had come in with Jaehyun, the younger man pulling him along excitedly and pushing him into the corner seat on the left side (Doyoung’s right, but that doesn’t really matter) before calling for his usual order of spicy pork stir-fry with rice and a cold beer. Johnny had eyed the menu stuck on the wall opposite warily, his eyes narrowed to slits in suspicion. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a piece of plain paper with the basic menu handwritten on it. Yuta had done it for Doyoung before he had fucked off to god-knows-where without a parting word. Doyoung hadn’t bothered to take it down; it was useful after all, and he didn’t have to repeat the menu for a new customer anymore.

“That’s all this place serves?” he had asked, accented Korean, voice loud in Doyoung’s tiny diner. “What you ordered wasn’t on whatever that thing called a ‘menu’ is.”

Doyoung had bit down the venomous insult readied on the back of his tongue, focused his attention on making sure that the pork was being cooked thoroughly in the pan. He had set down Jaehyun’s usual order in front of the younger more loudly than usual, looked at the taller man in the eye, and lifted his chin in what he hoped was a display of pride.

“I can make you anything you request for, provided that I have the ingredients for it. Alternatively, if you have something specific you want me to use, you can bring them yourself, and I will whip it up for you in my kitchen here.”

Johnny had blinked back at him, fist pressed into his cheek, elbows on Doyoung’s countertop. His black tank top fit snugly on him, muscles firm and defined, black hair styled to fall across his face artfully and black eyeliner smudged under his eyelashes. Beside him, Jaehyun had started stuffing his mouth with rice and pork, picking at the radish kimchi that came along with it. He had always preferred cabbage kimchi, Doyoung remembers, thinking all the times he had whined when he got any other kind.

Jaehyun isn’t that ignorant, Doyoung knows, but chooses to act like he is. He gets away with it because of his pretty face and the dimples, but Doyoung is immune to the charm.

“Can I have kimchi fried rice?”

Doyoung had nodded back at him, heading back into the kitchen to reach for some cold rice and his trusty kimchi container in the fridge. “With a sunny-side up, I assume? Do you want two?”

“Nah,” Johnny had started helping himself to Jaehyun’s kimchi, Doyoung had assumed from the clack of extra metal against porcelain.

“With scrambled eggs.”

Doyoung had blinked in surprise, his knife stilling against the board where he had been chopping kimchi up into smaller bits. What a weird request, he had remembered thinking. People who ordered kimchi fried rice usually wanted eggs cooked sunny-side up, crisp edges but with a melty yolk which they popped and mixed in together with the hot fried rice.

 _Scrambled eggs were so...American_. Doyoung remembers thinking that.

Johnny had eaten the fried rice and scrambled eggs without comment, only speaking up to ask for a second beer. He had paid for Jaehyun as well, crumpled notes and dull coins pressed onto the counter in front of Doyoung, while Jaehyun said a cheery goodbye and pressed a wet kiss to Doyoung’s cheek. He had nodded at Doyoung, a curt jerk of his head, and they had both ducked out of Doyoung’s diner into the light shower that had taken over that particular night.

\--

He comes to Doyoung’s diner again and again.

Johnny never comes with Jaehyun again. He comes at around six in the mornings, smelling of sweat, cigarettes, and the cheap air freshener that nightclubs put in their bathrooms. He comes alone, slides into the corner seat on Doyoung’s right, his left, and orders kimchi fried rice with scrambled eggs. He barely asks for beer, choosing to wash his meal down with the iced americano always clutched in his hand. The door to Doyoung’s diner is a little too short for him, he has hit his head a few times, but he never ever complains out loud.

He always comes alone, iced americano in hand, eats his kimchi fried rice with scrambled eggs.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” he tells Doyoung shortly one day, halfway through his fried rice. “It’s not good for you. You’ll get lung cancer.”

Doyoung shrugs at him, blows the smoke from his lungs, watches it twirl upwards and disappear. “That’s none of your business. And you’re one to talk, you work in the nightclub scene. It’s a breeding ground for sins worse than smoking.”

There is a dull thud as Johnny’s spoon hits the bottom of the bowl. Doyoung turns his head slightly in the other man’s direction, locks eyes with him, and takes another drag from his cigarette. Johnny’s eyes fall to his mouth ever so briefly, before he turns his attention back to his meal, pushing the rice around in the bowl as he takes a large gulp of his coffee.

“You never questioned why I want scrambled eggs with my kimchi fried rice.”

Doyoung blinks at him. “I am a chef, not a therapist. How you like your eggs is none of my concern.”

Johnny takes another bite. “Very professional of you.”

Doyoung doesn’t answer him. He throws his cigarette in the can under the sink, fills his glass with water from the tap, and drinks it all in one shot.

Johnny doesn’t leave immediately after he finishes his food. He asks for a beer.

“Can I have two glasses?”

Doyoung brings them over, watches Johnny fill the two glasses up halfway through as the white fizz simmers and slowly dies down. He doesn’t expect the taller man to place one of them near the edge of the counter on his side. “Go on, share a drink with me will you?”

It’s six thirty, and Doyoung knows that there are no early morning customers on this particular day. It is Tuesday, the university students have morning classes, hence their absence. Jungwoo has tomorrow off, Jaehyun has probably driven him home with a hot breakfast waiting for them both. Taeil sleeps in on Tuesday mornings. Yuta is still missing, gone on his eat-pray-love journey or whatever he chooses to call it; Doyoung thinks he’s just being a coward.

So he decides to share a beer with Johnny as the sun filters through the glass doors of his diner, the rays refracting onto the walls of his diner and hitting Johnny’s cheekbones just right.

They sit in silence until the glasses are empty and Johnny leaves Doyoung with a small smile.

\--

It becomes a regular occurrence in Doyoung’s life, spending Tuesday mornings with Johnny. The silence turns into conversations, one-sided ones where Johnny tells Doyoung about his own life, small snippets taken out of the twenty-seven years that he has lived so far.

Johnny is a year older than Doyoung. He grew up in Chicago, America. He had come to Korea to pursue a career as an idol after finishing high school; he had passed the audition a year before. However, three years into training, right on the cusp of debuting, he had decided that he didn’t want to be an entertainer. So he had quit the company and started pursuing a career as a DJ.

“I work as a barista in the mornings,” he tells Doyoung, his cheeks flushed a gentle pink from the alcohol. He had asked for soju, and while it isn’t on the menu, Doyoung hadn’t been able to find it in himself to say no. “It pays the bills, has flexible hours, and on the days I can’t get a gig at a club, I just work the graveyard shift and read behind the counter.”

Doyoung throws back his shot and his throat burns. He prefers his soju flavoured. Grape, specifically. Watermelon just tastes weird.

Johnny gets a gig at Taeil’s club the next week. Two weeks later, he gets hired as the permanent DJ there. It doesn’t stop him coming from Doyoung’s diner. He never orders anything different. He sits with Doyoung until sunrise on Tuesday mornings.

“I eat scrambled eggs with my fried rice because it reminds me of America,” he tells Doyoung. “My mom is a great cook, honestly. God, I miss her cooking every single day. However, for some reason, she can _never_ make a sunny-side up. The yolk always pops, or the egg always spreads too thin, so she always ends up scrambling it.”

Doyoung’s cigarette is unlit. He bites on the end in his mouth, his saliva dampening the filter.

“I never found a reason to complain,” he smiles wistfully into the distance, his eyes far away, lost in the memories of his beautiful idyllic childhood. Doyoung never had a good time growing up, he was kind of envious of people who did. “She makes really good scrambled eggs. Soon, it became our thing, you know. Kimchi fried rice with scrambled eggs.”

“Why not go home to Chicago?” Doyoung doesn’t know what compelled him to ask. He had never ever spoken a word to Johnny in all the previous Tuesday mornings spent together. Johnny doesn’t appear really surprised. If he is, Doyoung can’t tell.

“I don’t know,” Johnny shrugged, a brief lift of his shoulders, the material of his black tee stretched tight across his broad frame. It’s distracting, Doyoung thinks, chewing absent-mindedly on his cigarette.

“I really connected to Seoul when I first arrived,” Johnny lifts his glass to his lips, takes a sip of beer. “I don’t know how to explain it, but this city is different. I didn’t grow up here, but I don’t think I would ever _not_ call this place home.”

“Chicago is home, in the most basic sense. That’s where my parents’ house is, where I went to school, where I made my first friends, where I learnt how to ride a bike. It is the home of young Johnny Suh, where he is the apple of his parents’ eye and the token Asian kid in his year.”

“But Seoul, Seoul is different. I met so many amazing people. Jaehyun has told you right, we met when we were both still trainees. He quit earlier than me, even though he joined later, to go to accounting school.” Johnny laughs, a quiet chime that echoes in Doyoung’s ears. “Then I met Taeil, who decided to open a gay club. Mark, who works part-time at the same cafe as me. Of course, by extension, I met Donghyuck and his friends.”

“Chicago is _still_ home,” he tells Doyoung, eyes bright and wet under the pale yellow of the morning sun, and he looks so _young_ like that. Open, vulnerable, trusting, pink-cheeked from the alcohol and emotions bubbling up in him from his trip down memory lane. “Chicago is home to John Suh, who loves playing the piano and his dad’s barbecued ribs.”

Doyoung reaches for his own glass of beer, lukewarm from where it had been sitting on the counter. The unlit cigarette goes into the can under the sink out of habit. “And what is Seoul?”

“Seoul is home to Johnny, who loves music and DJ-ing, who loves the people that he has met here. People who have become so important to him in the course of realising what he truly loves, what he truly wants to do with his life.”

Johnny’s smile hadn’t left Doyoung’s brain since then. Stupid Chicago boy who falls in love too easily, who has a heart too big for his own good, who loves so easily and so whole-heartedly.

\--

“Tell me about you.”

Doyoung looks over at Johnny. They are drinking green tea highballs today, Doyoung woke up three days ago and found them at his doorstep. A peace offering by Yuta, probably, still too ashamed to show his face around Doyoung and the other regulars. This particular brand isn’t sold in Korea (Doyoung had looked it up), and it honestly tastes _really_ good.

He takes a long drag from his smoke, holds it in his lungs. “Tell you what?”

“About you. About Kim Doyoung.”

Doyoung snorts, exhales. “Like I said, I am a chef, not a therapist. And I am Kim Doyoung. I run this diner, nicknamed the Midnight Diner by my regulars. My menu consists of kimchi stew and soft tofu soup, with beer. However, my customers can request whatever dishes they want, and I will make it for them provided I have the ingredients for the dish.”

“What made you want to open a diner that only operates starting from midnight?”

Doyoung blinks. He thinks back to white pills, shaking hands, mixed with orange pills that sent him into white dreams where his brain ran at a billion miles per hour, numbers and letters all mixed up, spiraling upwards into thin air like the smoke from his cigarette. He laughs shortly, shakes his head, brings his smoke to his lips, lets the end hang there as he looks out onto the street outside his diner through its glass doors.

“Nothing interesting. I was an insomniac druggie. There was too little time, too many things to do. I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to try not sleeping at all.”

_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall._

Johnny watches him, and there is no judgement in his eyes. Doyoung doesn’t know what compelled him to continue, but he does. The words fall off his mouth and lay his past bare right there on the countertop that he polishes every single night when he cleans up. Right there in front of Johnny, with his chiseled arms, the small sunflower tattoo tucked near the crook of his left elbow, fingers wrapped around his glass with the dregs of the green tea highballs left inside.

“I walked off the balcony of my one-room apartment. It was a miracle I even survived, I lived on the eighth floor. I was hospitalised, I lost my medical scholarship. My mom cried and disowned me. My brother pulled out his savings for me to go to rehab. I worked part-time jobs tutoring university students while I went through physiotherapy. I continued tutoring and worked part-time at family diners to save up as much money as I could after I paid my brother back Three years ago, I found this place and opened the diner.”

Johnny slides his hand over the counter, palm up. A peace offering.

_All the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Couldn’t put Humpty together again._

Doyoung reaches for it. Johnny’s hand is warm. His heart stutters in his chest for the first time.

“Some people don’t want to go back home, some people can’t sleep. This diner gives them a place to be, and I am someone to talk to, so they don’t get all cooped up in their head. It’s nice to not be alone, even if the other person is just a stranger.”

Johnny squeezes his hand. “I know.”

\--

The first time Johnny ends up in Doyoung’s bed, there is no alcohol involved.

Johnny is overworked from his day job at the university and DJ-ing at Taeil’s club at night. He stumbles into the diner close to seven a.m., eyes nearly closed, and insists on ordering kimchi fried rice as per usual. However, two minutes into sitting down, the taller man is knocked out on Doyoung’s countertop, snoring softly, reeking of cheap air freshener and sweat. Doyoung had helped him up the stairs, nudged him awake long enough to get him into the shower. He gave Johnny a pair of boxers from an unopened pack at the back of his wardrobe, found a pair of sweatpants that Jaehyun had abandoned for him.

Johnny is out like a light even before his head hits the pillow. Doyoung thinks about sleeping on his tiny couch, perched on the edge of his queen bed, phone in his hand as he wonders if Jaehyun or Jungwoo would answer their phones if he called.

There are warm fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling him towards the bed, reaching for his phone and clicking the screen off. Doyoung ends up under his own duvet in Johnny’s arms, Johnny’s face in his shoulder, their legs tangled together. Johnny is so warm around him, smelling faintly of pine and sandalwood, mixed with the clean linen smell of Doyoung’s preferred shampoo and fabric softener. He smells all too familiar, all too comforting, and Doyoung’s heart is so loud in his chest and in his ears, he wonders how Johnny didn’t wake up from it.

For the first time in forever, Doyoung sleeps dreamlessly.

When he wakes up, it is past two in the afternoon, and he doesn’t remember the last time he slept so much. He usually wakes up at noon, his hands fisted into his sheets, a dull thudding in his head from the fitful sleep he gets. There is an empty space next to him in his bed, smelling faintly of sandalwood and pine, and it is still so _warm_. He pretends that his heart doesn’t hurt, that he doesn’t miss how warm Johnny’s body was, pressed tightly against his, luring Doyoung towards the dark abyss of sleep that he is usually so afraid of.

It is a shock to find Johnny standing in the kitchen of his diner, shirtless, hair ruffled and undone. The coffee machine is running gently, and Doyoung’s mug is filled with a coffee that smells of caramel and milk, just the way he likes it. Johnny hands him the mug, smiles sleepily at Doyoung and wishes him a good morning.

Doyoung can’t help himself. Maybe it’s because he’s not used to sleeping so well, maybe his brain is too muddled from all the emotions he’s not used to feeling. Johnny doesn’t look out of place in his kitchen at all, with his messy hair, Jaehyun’s ratty sweatpants sitting low on his hips, smelling of pine and sandalwood and Doyoung’s shampoo.

He leans up to kiss Johnny and tastes black coffee.

Bitter, dark, and heavy. So very similar to the sleep that constantly threatens to overwhelm his mind and pulls at the delicate barriers of his mind built up with years of therapy and rehab. So very similar to the dark tendrils of shadowy temptation that poke at the vulnerable parts of Doyoung’s mind, almost rising to transform into dark waves that would crash over him and sweep him away into the whirlwinds of a past that Doyoung has tried so hard to leave behind.

Except it is not the same. The bitterness settles on Doyoung’s tongue alongside the acrid taste left behind from his cigarettes, Johnny’s own tongue warm and welcoming against his. The darkness is comforting, like his duvet. It is warm, wrapping around his heart, grounding him to reality, reminding him that he is no longer stuck in the past. He is here, with Johnny, and _god_ , he wants to keep kissing him.

So Doyoung does. And Johnny kisses him again and again.

\--

Like he promised, Donghyuck brings his boyfriend to the diner.

His name is Mark, and he orders black bean noodles with wide eyes as he takes in the small space that is Doyoung’s diner. He is studying to be a composer, he tells Doyoung, as he mixes up his noodles with the sauce. Donghyuck looks at him with stars in his eyes, his cheeks pink when Mark smiles at him, and steals some noodles as “compensation” for the pork belly he had fed Mark with his own chopsticks. Renjun, Jaemin and Jeno are seated on the right side this time, making fake retching noises whenever the couple feed each other or bump shoulders. Yet, they are happy for their friend, Doyoung can tell, as they scarf down their usual orders and drink tea instead of beer for once.

Johnny blinks at the sight, before he pulls Mark into a hug and greets the other university students excitedly. The scene makes flowers bloom in Doyoung’s chest, warmth spreading through his veins as he hangs around near the kitchen, cigarette trapped between his lips. Johnny is good with people, he knows, and he can’t help himself as the corners of his lips curl up ever so slightly, as he watches Mark and Johnny converse rapidly in English.

“Hey.”

The cigarette is plucked from in between his lips, and he willingly opens his mouth as Johnny kisses him. He’s been drinking americano again, Doyoung can tell. Johnny stubs out his cigarette in one of the ashtrays that he puts for customers on the countertop, pulling him closer. Doyoung reaches a hand out blindly, his thumb finding the sunflower tattoo on Johnny’s left arm without having to look for it, following a path that it had taken many times before.

“Hey you,” he murmurs against Johnny’s mouth, faintly aware of the gasps in the background. He pulls away gently, and Johnny is smiling at him, warm and comforting, even if there is residue bitterness from iced americano lingering on Doyoung’s tongue.

“Wait, hyung!” Jaemin’s voice is a shriek, five pairs of eyes traveling back and forth from Doyoung’s face to Johnny’s. “I thought, you said-”

“I thought you said you never confessed to someone you liked before?” Jeno’s eyes are wide under the caramel fringe of his hair, looking like an adorable lost puppy and Doyoung just wants to pinch his cheeks so badly. Renjun is shocked into silence, the other couple in the room too, mouths hanging open with disbelief. Johnny laughs, the sound a rumble that spreads from his chest and echoes in the diner that is too tiny to contain it.

“That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have someone special, Jeno-ah.”

Doyoung can’t help himself. The laughter bubbles up in his chest and makes its way up his throat and out of his mouth. He laughs until his stomach hurts, hip braced against the counter, clinging onto Johnny, thumb pressed against the sunflower tattoo on the other man’s arm. Johnny watches him fondly, his arm warm against Doyoung’s, his eyes disappearing into thin lines as he smiles widely at the diner owner. He knows that his regulars (and one new customer, but Mark might as well be a new regular here now) are watching the scene with wide eyes, uncomprehending, thinking if the normal moody Doyoung-hyung had been abducted by aliens and replaced with a clone that did not understand Doyoung’s personality at all.

Johnny grins at him, presses a quick kiss to his lips before he slides down into his usual seat.

“Kimchi fried rice, with scrambled eggs please.”

Doyoung’s heart nearly bursts at the sight. It is thrumming along at an erratic staccato, his head is fuzzy in the tender way, and he feels like he’s walking on air.

“Right, coming right up.”

\--

Doyoung runs a diner. 

It doesn’t have a name, but his regulars call it the Midnight Diner, simply because it opens only from midnight to seven in the morning. 

Johnny is one of these regulars. His usual order is kimchi fried rice with scrambled eggs. 

On Tuesdays, Doyoung and Johnny share a glass of alcohol and watch the sunrise through the glass doors of the diner. Johnny doesn’t work in the mornings on that day. They kiss in the kitchen, in the bathroom of Doyoung’s tiny apartment on the second floor, tangled in the sheets of Doyoung’s queen bed as the sunlight spills across the floor with the rising sun. 

Doyoung still sleeps in the day, but the darkness of the night is no longer terrifying. 

He no longer faces it alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> brain overdrive, thoughts johndo
> 
> comments and kudos are always welcome and sincerely appreciated! 
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/_doively) and [cc](https://curiouscat.me/doivelyz)!


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